Helldiver: The Alex Morgan Interpol Spy Thriller Series (Intrepid 4)

by Chris Allen

  Sometimes you just have to take it. No matter what’s being thrown at you and no matter how bad it’s going to hurt. You have to stand there, prepare for the worst and accept that your options have just run out. In those moments, someone else is calling the shots. All you can do is try to survive it and see how recoverable or not your situation is if you make it through to the other side. As the three men closed in on Morgan, he braced to withstand an old-fashioned beating but he wasn’t going down without trying to balance the damage.

  Eventually, despite his best efforts, that proved impossible. Morgan could do little more than defend himself until the sheer weight of numbers began to overwhelm him. He gained some kind of sadistic satisfaction when he realized that the fourth man had been requisitioned from door duty to join his colleagues just as Morgan’s resistance was at its most intense. But soon his only option was to lock his fists and arms up around his face and head to protect himself against the relentless onslaught of cosh strikes. Fortunately, he could sense that his attackers were tiring too. Their tempo began to slow and, apart from the occasional kick and punch, the blitzkrieg they’d just put him through finally stopped.

  Then the four of them withdrew just as there was a knock at the door. Morgan rolled from his side and onto his back, spitting blood, trying to get his breath back. Were the efforts of the cosh quartet just the fucking appetizer? And were the new arrivals about to deliver Morgan the main treatment? He was so completely dazed that he couldn’t make sense of any of it. He blamed concussion, which was a good sign, because he was at least lucid enough to recognize it for what it was. He wiped the blood from his mouth, nose and cheeks along the sleeve of his shirt and pulled himself up enough to sit and face the door.

  His greatest concern now was that the leader didn’t seem in any way fazed that someone was at the door, despite the fact that there were two dead bodies bleeding into the hotel carpet in full view of the corridor, along with four men holding coshes standing over a bloodied foreigner who had obviously just taken a serious beating. Not a good sign. Concussion or not, Morgan was preparing himself for more of the same.

  When the door opened and he heard the leader say, “Ah, finally, tovarich!” in a friendly, almost jovial tone, he thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  When the man at the door walked in and Morgan could see him clearly, he didn’t know whether to grab for a gun or get to the drinks cabinet.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Jesus, kid,” said Masterson. “You look like shit. Those guys really worked you over good.”

  Morgan and Masterson were sitting together in a new suite, still in the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski, only this one didn’t have the dead bodies or Russian agents that the last one did. Masterson was dropping ice cubes from the minibar fridge into a hand towel before handing it over to Morgan, who held it against the right-hand side of his face. Masterson dropped more ice cubes into two glasses, each of which was doused with a few liberal fingers of vodka. It was almost 2am and Morgan was beat.

  “So what time did you check in?” asked Masterson, seemingly unperturbed by what he’d walked in on.

  “Sometime before midnight,” Morgan mumbled against the ice pack.

  “And the two stiffs,” replied Masterson. “When did they turn up?”

  “Almost the same time. I’d barely had time to check out the view. Speaking of which.” Morgan stood carefully and, taking a couple of painful steps, retracted the heavy drapes that ran across the north-facing windows of his suite. Red Square was instantly revealed in dramatic fashion and Morgan felt an almost adrenal rush at the sight of it. “You were here,” he said eventually, “back in the dark old days, right?”

  “Once or twice,” Masterson replied from his chair. “Although, I gotta tell you, this business has a ring of the dark old days, all of its own. Thirty years ago, they would have used metal pipes, not coshes, and that would have been just the tenderizer. You would have ended up with a bullet in the back of your head and a long final swim down that river you’re staring at. Things are a little more civilized these days.”

  “Civilized?” Morgan turned and gestured at the damage he’d sustained.

  “I said ‘a little.’” Masterson took a drink. So did Morgan. The two remained silent for a while.

  “So, tell me,” Morgan began, “how is it that you end up here out of the blue?”

  “You asked for me. Your instructions to Dominique were pretty clear: Have your controller make contact with me in Moscow. So, here I am.”

  “You’re Dominique’s controller?”

  “That I am. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No, it’s just …” Morgan paused.

  “I know the history, Morgan. Mickey Sheridan filled me in. You need to deal with that right now if this thing is going to progress. And it is. So, whatever feelings you still have for her, for Arena, then you need to get it off your chest or one of you may end up on the wrong end of another Makarov before this day is done. And I know you don’t want that to happen.”

  Morgan took another drink. Masterson reached across with the bottle and topped him up.

  “I’ll deal with it,” Morgan replied. “It just took me completely by surprise. I mean, her operating in our world. It wasn’t anything like I expected her life had turned out. All this time I thought she had gone back into humanitarian work and was married and having kids with some safe-bet, intellectual UN type or a university professor. I had no idea she’d be in the middle of something like this.”

  “That’s because you’re thinking about it totally from your perspective. Think about it from hers. Her history makes her perfect for this line of work and her university pedigree and contact with the current chief of MI6 seals the deal. She may have been damaged by that job in Malfajiri, but name anyone you know in this game who doesn’t get fucked up by their first real taste of the life. She just had to go off and get her head straight and when she did, she knew what she wanted to do.”

  “But who is she working for?” asked Morgan. “I heard Europol.”

  “You heard right,” Masterson replied. “The General arranged it years ago, apparently. You should really get those kinds of details from Sheridan. Short version, as I understand it, she couldn’t or wouldn’t work in the UK after that whole Abraham Johnson thing, so Davenport got her a gig at Europol. Then, when he needed her a couple of years later, she was ready.”

  Morgan came back to the chairs and sat down. He felt like he could sleep for ten years but knew there was work to be done.

  “OK, let’s leave that where it is,” he said. “What’s going on with your Russian friends down the corridor? Who are they, and why aren’t I dead and floating down that river?”

  “Well, my take on the first two is that they were sent in by someone who isn’t happy with your involvement. From what Arena managed to tell me earlier, that’s most likely Zolnerowich. Helldiver obviously wants you around but his old man doesn’t. Zolnerowich still has some pull back here, not for much longer mind you, so he arranged a hit. God only knows how many people he’s had put away like that over the years. In the early days he would have done it personally. Not now.”

  “So then who were the guys who came in and took care of Zolnerowich’s hit team – and then had a crack at me?”

  “They’re SVR. I’ve known Hermescec – the guy who just shot those two assholes – for the best part of thirty years. He’s one of my back-channel contacts over here. He’s a survivor. He has a knack for successfully calling the direction the winds of political change have blown here in Moscow and he’s always managed to come out unscathed. This time around he’s correctly noted that the current director of the SVR, his boss, General Latushkin, is about to be replaced. This Helldiver thing has become such a mess for the Kremlin that Hermescec was only too willing to step in to clean it up.”

  “And I guess that’s where you come in, right?”

  “Correct,” Masterson replied. “Everything about this operation has cha
nged in the past twenty-four hours and now it’s a forensic-level rout of the main players. Helldiver has to go, along with his old man.”

  “So if we’re now in cahoots with the Russians, why the fuck did this Hermescec guy and his comrades do me over? Hardly fucking détente.”

  “News travels fast in this business, kid. You know that. He got word that you’d killed four of their guys in Antibes earlier today and what you got was a little bit of old-fashioned Russian retribution.”

  “Why didn’t they just kill me and wait for me to be replaced?”

  “Call it professional courtesy,” Masterson said, smiling. “And a personal favor to me.”

  “Oh, great! I’m much obliged,” said Morgan. He raised his glass. Masterson responded in kind. “So what am I supposed to do now? Seems like this thing is already wrapping up.”

  This time Masterson stood and walked over to the windows, looking out across his own history in the home of the old enemy. He sipped his vodka. “This thing is light years away from being wrapped up, Morgan. Not with Helldiver and Zolnerowich still at large. This is where it all gets seriously old school. Shit is going to go down tomorrow that you’re probably not going to be very comfortable with, but you’ll have to get comfortable with it – pretty darn quick.”

  Morgan remained silent, listening and watching, his admiration and respect for Masterson’s experienced guidance underpinning the urgency of his need to understand the new environment he found himself operating in.

  “Tomorrow, as far as your responsibilities to Helldiver are concerned, everything remains unchanged. You’ll turn up at the private hangar to greet him as per the current plan and, importantly, just as he’s expecting, and then you’ll deliver him straight into the hands of the SVR. After that, he’s no longer your concern.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll let you know. For now, just make sure you’re shipshape for his arrival back in Moscow. He thinks he’s flying into town to tear Latushkin a new one, but he has no idea that Latushkin is already out. As of this afternoon, there’s a new guy calling the shots at the SVR. When Helldiver sets off from Nice in—” he consulted his watch, “—just a few more hours, he’ll be on a one-way ticket.”

  “What about Zolnerowich?”

  “Hopefully he’ll be on the same plane. If not, there’ll be a team going into the Antibes house the second Helldiver is with you. We don’t want to risk any tipoffs, so timing will be crucial. Don’t worry, we’ll have eyes on you at the airport, so we’ll know the second Helldiver is off the plane and getting into that vehicle with you.”

  “And Arena?”

  “All she has to do is make sure Helldiver gets on the goddamn plane.”

  “What’s General Davenport’s position on all this – delivering Helldiver to Moscow instead of The Hague?”

  “I guess you can ask him that question yourself some time. Meanwhile, you better get some shut eye and hope that the swelling goes down at least enough not to scare Helldiver back onto his jet when he sees you. Everything has to be smooth sailing tomorrow, Morgan. If he smells a rat he’ll aim to disappear and things will just get a whole lot messier than they already are. All you have to remember is the hundreds of people who have died in the past twelve months as a direct result of his actions. The casualty rate will only continue to climb if he isn’t stopped now. As for his father, that old bastard should have been killed years ago. So.” He turned back to Morgan. “Are we good?”

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  Masterson put his empty glass down and walked out.

  CHAPTER 28

  Morgan was standing on the tarmac at Sheremetyevo International Airport just outside the private hangar that was ready to receive Helldiver’s Gulfstream IV. It was sunny but there was a hint of dark cloud off in the distance and a light wind was starting to get some kick. The plane was at that moment winding down its engines and the aircrew were already lowering the steps for the passengers. Russian customs officials were in place. Morgan knew that they were on the SVR payroll and that Helldiver would be given only the most cursory attention on this occasion, potentially his last. Behind Morgan were two cars – a standard Mercedes GL SUV for the security team and Helldiver’s favored Bentley Mulsanne long-wheelbase limousine, which Arena had arranged and which had picked Morgan up from the hotel and brought him to the airport. The only thing that would be different from previous pickups was the driver: the guy who normally drove Helldiver in Moscow had apparently come down with a sudden bout of gastro and so it was necessary for the limousine company to replace him at the last minute. They had been very apologetic when they called Morgan at the hotel ahead of the vehicle’s arrival. Morgan told them he completely understood and that he would explain the situation to Mr. Zolner, if it came up. The moment Morgan got into the vehicle and met the replacement driver, he knew that he too was on the SVR payroll. On the tarmac the driver remained behind the Bentley, ready to open the doors for the passengers as they were cleared by Customs. The Mercedes SUV was being driven by one of Rodenko’s local security people, and he met them at the tarmac. Morgan stood well forward of both vehicles, level with the nose of the Gulfstream. Despite Masterson’s encouraging final words about the swelling going down on Morgan’s face, it hadn’t, and so Morgan had decided to own it and pin the incident squarely, by implication, on the shoulders of Zolnerowich. He needed Helldiver to be distracted enough by news of Morgan’s misfortune to ensure a smooth transition from the aircraft into the motor car.

  The steps were being lowered and Morgan recognized Famke as she descended ahead of the passengers, giving Morgan a beautiful smile as she took up her post at the bottom of the steps. Arena exited first – thank God – and gave him a very reserved smile just as anyone would expect from colleagues familiar with each other in a professional sense. He saw her thank Famke as she stepped onto the tarmac and walked toward Morgan. He maintained an air of confidence so that if there were any eyes on him from the aircraft then he would give them no reason for concern. Arena was met by the Customs officials, who checked her passport, asked her their questions and got her to acknowledge and sign their forms. She remained with them, no doubt to assist with Helldiver’s entry formalities.

  Rodenko emerged from the airplane with all the usual bravado of the bodyguard expecting to stop bullets with his puffed-out chest. He walked down the steps and into the depressing anti-climax of the waiting bureaucracy and was eventually also cleared. He walked to the car, ignoring Morgan, and made straight for the new driver.

  “Where the fuck is Kurylenko?”

  As agreed, the driver didn’t reply, instead deferring to Morgan, who turned and said, “He’s sick. Got the shits. The company had to replace him at the last minute. They cleared it with me first. I said it was OK.”

  Rodenko made a point of trying to stare the man down as he inspected him as best he could in front of the Customs officials. Then he took up his position covering the car.

  Finally Helldiver emerged. The drunkenness of the previous evening had evaporated although the trademark arrogance was still front and center. Morgan wondered if the man suffered hangovers. He hoped so. Helldiver looked squarely at Morgan as if to say, “Is everything OK? I’m relying on you to tell me right now.” As Morgan stepped into the limelight, ready to play his part in delivering the man to the gallows, he thought of Masterson’s advice to remember the hundreds of souls who’d lost their lives under Helldiver’s plan to reclaim his heritage and be a hero to the cause.

  During the night, after Masterson had left, Morgan had re-familiarized himself with the news reports of the four downed aircraft – Katak Airlines 712, Patiala Airlines 550, Patiala Airlines 190, and Chimbu Airways 376. He’d trawled through the hundreds upon hundreds of names of those who had lost their lives, studying photographs and replaying the most recent news reports. It was an endless stream of heartbroken people, grieving relatives from all over the world, who only wanted one thing: justice
for their lost loved ones. It was all that he needed. Helldiver deserved to get what was coming to him, and that was all there is was to it.

  Morgan exuded confidence. Everything about his non-spoken cues told Helldiver it was perfectly safe to step down from the plane and walk across to the Customs officials. Helldiver smiled grimly at Morgan from the steps before proceeding down to the tarmac and across the last few feet to be cleared for entry into the sovereign territory of the Russian Federation.

  With the formalities complete, Helldiver walked straight to Morgan, shook his hand and the two engaged in a brief exchange of targeted questions and specific assurances against the whine of the twin Rolls Royce turbofan engines as they finally shut down. Apparently satisfied, Helldiver made his way to the Bentley. He noted the new driver and shot Morgan a quizzical glance. Morgan simply shook his head slightly, indicating that it was all good and that he was across it. It was at this point that Helldiver finally noticed Morgan’s damaged face. Morgan indicated that he would explain en route to the hotel.

  Thankfully, Rodenko climbed into the front passenger seat of the SUV, leaving Morgan and Arena to join Helldiver in the Bentley. Arena climbed into the front with the driver and Morgan got into the back with Helldiver. Once they were inside, the driver ensured that all the doors were closed firmly but quietly and then expertly got them underway without a word.